Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) (5 page)

“I don’t know,
pequeña
.” He didn’t tell her this was the only bear baiting—besides his first one as a very young boy—that had horrified him. “The
osos grandes
can wipe out a sheep herd in one night. The cattle are rags in the great bears’ mouths; one bite and the calves are gone. The mother cows grieve like women. They won’t eat, won’t sleep. They roam the hills bawling for the calves the bears have carried away.” He needed her to understand why he’d killed so many bears. Why, though he felt sorry for the grizzlies, he had to go on destroying them. The welfare of his herds depended on it.

The sinking sun shining on her tresses turned her hair the color of California’s golden hills come summertime. “You raise cattle and sheep?” she asked.

“
Sí
.” He stroked Oro’s forehead. “And horses the color of your hair. This is Oro. His name means
gold
in Spanish. He has never sired a foal that did not match his color. We run one stallion with twenty-five mares in
manadas.
I own many of these small herds, placing chestnut mares with palomino stallions. This gives us the greatest return of palomino foals. Everyone rides palominos at Rancho de los Robles.” He pointed across the mountains in the direction of his domain. “Rancho de los Robles has endless oak groves, pines, magnificent redwoods, and a crystal-clear creek singing through the land.”

“What does Rancho de los Robles mean?” She smiled, and his stomach tightened.

“Ranch of the Oaks.” A wave of wistfulness washed over him. He longed to show her his home. The rolling hills full of cattle and golden horses. The great oak trees that sheltered the herds during winter storms and warm summer afternoons. The creek so clear you could see the salmon swimming upstream from the ocean to spawn in the fall.

She stroked Oro’s neck, her small white hand caressing his horse’s flaxen mane. His mother had small hands too, soft and pale such as these. Giving into longing, he closed his eyes and feathered his fingers over the top of hers on the horse’s warm hide. He savored the silkiness of her skin. When she didn’t pull away, something deep inside him eased. He kept his eyes closed, relishing the comfort coursing through him in the presence of this gentle, young woman. There was such a sweetness about her. A serene beauty that captivated him.

“My father enjoyed watching the bear kill that bull.” Her voice caught. “All the men enjoyed it. Even the women enjoyed it. I’ve never met people who savor cruelty this way.”

He opened his eyes. Took a deep breath. In his mind, he saw Sarita cheering and lusting for blood alongside her gringo husband. He removed his dark hand from Rachel’s fingers, so fair and delicate on his horse, gazing as far as he could across the horizon, wishing he didn’t feel so raw inside. Wishing he didn’t feel anything at all here with Joshua Tyler’s daughter. “It is the Californio way,” he finally said.

“What does
pequeña
mean?”

“
Pequeña
is small one.” It was an endearment, really, the way he used it with her, but he wouldn’t tell her so.

Her smile widened. “I’m not little. I’m tall for a woman. At least here in California, where the women are quite short.”

“You weigh as much as my sister. She is a willow stick.” He had no idea how his sisters, aunt, and uncle had fared in his absence. His uncle especially loved parties, and Sarita was Tia Josefa’s niece. His family should have been at this wedding, even though Tyler was no friend of the Vasquezes.

“What was your mother like? When did she pass away?”

“Who told you she passed away?”

“My Father.”

“Why would your father speak of my mother?”

“Not my earthly father. My heavenly Father.”

“God?” Roman rasped out a laugh, but it unnerved him, the way she spoke of God.

“You don’t believe in the Lord speaking to people?”

“Perhaps if you were a priest.”

“The only mediator God requires is Jesus. His death on our behalf ushers us into the presence of the Almighty.”

“Are you a Protestant?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I serve the Lord. Who do you serve, Señor Vasquez?”

“I have served you today,
Yanquia pequeña
. You should thank me for escorting you home.” The whitewashed walls of her father’s hacienda loomed ahead. The smell of roasting meat drifted on the air. Wine and brandy would be flowing soon enough, along with the sound of guitars and violins when the celebration returned to the house.

She glanced at the rambunctious crowd making its way toward them in crude wooden carts and atop prancing horses, then turned back to him. “You are mocking my faith?”

“I do not mock faith.”

“So you are Catholic?” Her voice trembled.

“Everyone in California is Catholic.” He tossed the challenge out to her, waiting for her to deny an allegiance to the Catholic Church for herself or her father. He smiled even as his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun and the real trouble religion could bring. Perhaps he could wipe her from his mind if she admitted to being Protestant. A Protestant woman was about as appealing to him as a prairie fire.

“My father is . . .”

His heart stalled and then beat thickly, anticipating what she would say. He couldn’t let her say it. “Catholic,” he finished abruptly for her in spite of himself. Denying Catholicism was a serious matter in California. She appeared taken aback by his forceful interruption. Her mouth opened and closed and then opened again.

“All landowners in California must belong to the Church,” he finished before she could utter a word.

“The Catholic Church,” she clarified.

“Yes.” Favoring his wounded thigh, he swung onto his horse, settling himself in the saddle to look down at her. On top of his mount, he felt invincible, even with his bad leg. But staring at her, her wide blue eyes locked expectantly on him, his chest tightened. Who would watch over the Yankee
pequeña
once he was gone? Surely not her foolish father or Sarita’s wicked dueña
.

He recalled Sarita’s fascination with the Indian shamans. Her dueña was a soothsayer. Intuition had saved his life on countless occasions, and he sensed Rachel was in danger here.
I believe the gringa will die this very year.
He scanned the approaching crowd and found the Indian servant watching them but a stone’s throw away, waiting like a snake to coil back around the little gringa
.

“Stay behind these walls.” He pointed to the whitewashed adobe bricks behind her. “And tell your father to find you a different dueña.” He pointed to the servant. “That one serves the devil.” Reining Oro around, he rode away without looking back.

Rancho de los Robles, California

Spring, 1846

His family was thrilled to have him home alive. Roman spent a month doing little more than eating everything Lupe set in front of him while keeping his sisters company as they sewed and studied their lessons in the
sala
. While he was in Texas, Maria and Isabella had changed. All Maria talked about was traveling. Each day, she begged him to take her to Monterey, to Mexico City, to Spain to see their grandparents. His red-haired sister was a beauty, but she was stubborn and spoiled, and her fondest wish was to leave Rancho de los Robles. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting her venture out into the world without a husband. And he couldn’t think of one man in California he’d allow Maria to marry.

His younger sister, Isabella—his cousin really, for Izzy was Tio and Tia’s adopted daughter—was growing up quickly as well. Much to his dismay, she no longer wanted piggyback rides. Instead, she skipped along wherever she pleased, carrying a chicken named Señora Poppycock in her arms.

Thanks to Lupe’s oily salve, his leg was nearly healed. Coupled with the old Indian woman’s constant care and hearty cooking, along with plenty of rest in the
sala
with his sisters, he felt stronger than ever. Aside from his concerns over Maria and Isabella, it was good to be home. Today, he’d been more than ready to escape the hacienda, to mount up and ride out into the fields with his uncle and the vaqueros to oversee the livestock.

Hills covered in the lush green grass of spring rolled as far as the eye could see. A herd of cattle numbering over a thousand head grazed peacefully at the property’s northwestern border. The land hadn’t changed, but the stones that marked the property boundaries had. Joshua Tyler now claimed this territory as his own. The cattle milling here belonged to both ranchos. The
fierros
, the iron brands, on the cattle appeared similar. Many wore sale brands marking them as Tyler’s animals now. The cattle’s ear marks, the
señals
, could be altered as well. Tyler’s cattle were missing most of their left ear. Rancho de los Robles cattle were also marked in the left ear with a slit: a
señal
that could easily be cut off to become Tyler’s half-ear mark.

His easy mood evaporating, Roman shifted in his silver-studded saddle that had seen better days. “What has happened here?” he asked Tio Pedro and Juan, Rancho de los Robles’s
mayordomo,
riding beside him on palomino stallions. A dozen vaqueros rode in the three men’s wake, all on golden horses as well.

“We have lost hundreds of cattle. Tyler is changing the brands,” Juan explained. “Those over there,” Juan pointed to a herd of nearby longhorns, “they all have the foreigner’s sale-brand. What should we do, Patrόn?”

“Take the vaqueros and mark the new calves,” Pedro told Juan. His uncle was nearly too heavy to sit a horse now. Roman could hear him breathing from several feet away. He waved his pudgy hand at Juan to do his bidding.

The
mayordomo
looked to Roman for confirmation of the command, something Juan had never done before he left for Texas. Time had not been kind to his Uncle Pedro. The golden rings were absent from his fingers, probably gambled away. The
aguardiente
, California’s brandy, had taken its toll, making him an unfit leader for Rancho de los Robles. Roman could see Juan and the other vaqueros no longer respected Tio Pedro. The herdsmen waited for his nod of approval before galloping off to the task his uncle assigned them.

“Juan is right. The brands have been changed.” Tio Pedro sighed heavily.

Roman shifted again in his saddle, raking a hand through his hair. Though he’d left war-torn Texas, he still felt embattled here. “Tell me the truth, Tio. Why has Tyler branded our cattle?”

“The Americano has stolen from us, but it is not as Juan believes.” Tio Pedro sighed again. Roman wondered if he could make it back to the hacienda on his horse or if they would need a
cart
to carry the don home today.

“What does Juan believe?” Roman asked patiently. It was the Californio way to honor one’s elders at all times. If nothing else, Roman was Californio to the core. And he did love his uncle, who had raised him since his father’s death over a decade ago when Tio Pedro took over as the patrόn of Rancho de los Robles.

Tio Pedro waved a plump hand in the
mayordomo
’s direction. “Juan’s father was our
mayordomo
for twenty-eight years. Not once did Junipero question me or your father. But that one, the son, he is disrespectful. I miss Junipero. Oh, that the bull that killed the father would have killed the son instead.”

“What are you saying, Tio?”

“I’m sorry about Sarita. She chose the Americano on her own accord. I had nothing to do with her marriage to Señor Tyler.”

Roman did not acknowledge his uncle’s condolences. When he refused to speak, Tio Pedro continued. “You should be happy Sarita agreed to that union. Señor Tyler had his heart set on Maria. It was all I could do to hold the foreigner at bay. We thought you were dead and it was hard to go on without you.”

“Tyler wanted my sister for a wife?” Roman was stunned. Maria was younger than Tyler’s daughter, for heaven’s sake.

“It cost many cattle to pacify the Yankee; alas, the changed brands.” Tio Pedro waved his hand over the herd in explanation.

The leather of Roman’s saddle creaked in protest as he shifted his frame, every muscle in his body tightening in anger. He knew his uncle’s fondness for monte. But certainly Tio would never gamble with the Americano, would he?

“Why must we pacify Tyler?” Roman’s heart pounded as he waited for his uncle’s response. Tio would not be the first Californio to lose his family’s holdings to gambling.

“The Americanos are threatening to wrest California from Mexico. If this happens, it will be wise to have a powerful Yankee aligned with us. I have done everything I can to see this accomplished for Rancho de los Robles.”

“Micheltorena will not let this happen,” Roman said with more merit than the statement deserved. He’d been a soldier with California’s governor in the Texas campaign. Though he defended Micheltorena, he doubted the governor and his
cholo
troops could stop the Americans if the United States declared war on California.

“Micheltorena’s troops are nothing but convicts from Mexico.” Tio Pedro spat in disgust. “I consider the
cholos
a bitter insult. That Mexico would send us such worthless men to defend California is despicable. The
cholos
are the only outlaws Alta California knows except for the bears and horse-thieving Indians. Not only do the
cholos
molest women, they steal everything from clothing to chickens. Because of this, Micheltorena is no longer popular here
.
”

“California should be a free province governed by the
gente de razón
,” Roman said. “Is it true Micheltorena has aligned himself with the Americans in the north?”

“Micheltorena granted huge tracts of land in the Sacramento Valley to a number of foreigners to secure their loyalty. John Sutter has now built a fort on the Sacramento River. The Swiss bows to no authority but his own and is training the Indians to be his soldiers, and Micheltorena has been run out of California,” Tio Pedro said dismally.

Roman swore under his breath and pounded his saddle. “Why did you not tell me this a month ago? Who has become our governor? With the United States declaring their doctrine of Manifest Destiny, we must be united now more than ever!” Oro laid his ears back at Roman’s outburst, but didn’t move a muscle.